


This isn't real, this isn't real.

by novak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novak/pseuds/novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This isn’t real.”</p>
<p>Sam’s statement is a hoarse whisper, a desperate prayer. He clings to the sound of it before it disappears inside the cold, white room of the asylum. He pulls at the padded, soft leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, arches up off of the flimsy, too-thin mattress with the lump that presses into his back. Lucifer cackles beside him, a broad hand spread wide across his heaving, naked chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This isn't real, this isn't real.

**Author's Note:**

> woops, short again. i've got a fic in the works though so keep an eye out dawgs

“This isn’t real.”

Sam’s statement is a hoarse whisper, a desperate prayer. He clings to the sound of it before it disappears inside the cold, white room of the asylum. He pulls at the padded, soft leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, arches up off of the flimsy, too-thin mattress with the lump that presses into his back. Lucifer cackles beside him, a broad hand spread wide across his heaving, naked chest.

“Not real,” Sam chants to himself. “Not real, not real.” His eyes are tightly closed, tears streaking through the channels created by wrinkled skin as Lucifer presses the blade of a knife stolen from the kitchens down into the skin stretched taught between his ribs, cutting through it like butter. Sam whimpers, whines, and struggles a little more, thin rivulets of tears weeping into his hairline, gathering behind his ears.  
The pain is real, Lucifer’s laugh is real. Lucifer’s forked tongue swiping up his sternum is real. He could swear on his mother’s grave that Lucifer is here, right now, touching him, torturing him. Toying with him.

“Mm, _Sammy_ , you taste of fear.”

Sam sobs dryly, trying to twist away from Lucifer - and obviously, to no avail. “They wrapped you up nice and pretty for me, hm? Gotta keep you from hurting yourself, I suppose. And look at these pretty cuffs. Pretty cuffs for a pretty boy?” Lucifer trails a fingertip across the aged leather, pushes it under to fondle the fleece that lines the inside, soaked with Sam’s sweat.

Sam makes a low noise, a pathetic, drawn out moan when Lucifer’s weight is introduced to the bed as he clambers on. He takes a seat straddling Sam’s hips, the denim of his jeans clinging tight to his thighs as he leans down, close enough that Sam can feel Lucifer’s stubble against his cheek. “We’re gonna have so much fun. We could play a game. You wanna play a game? Or do you wanna keep bein’ my little bitch?” Lucifer asks, and the question is sincere as he trails the warm pad of his thumb across Sam’s well-bitten, chapped lower lip, almost affectionate.

Sam doesn’t answer; he hasn’t verbally acknowledged Lucifer since the doctors of the facility started trying to tranquilise him into an induced slumber - for his own good, naturally. Sam is convinced that this induced sleep is even more dangerous than going without it for 52 hours.

Lucifer remains unphased by Sam’s silence; he’s used to it by now, but he knows that with enough prodding, poking, and hard work, he’ll get him to crack again. He’ll get inside the flesh of Sam’s skull once more, dredge up memories of the acts performed upon him in the Pit. For now, he decidedly reenacts them - at least, the more accomplishable ones. There’s only so much a hallucination can do in the white-washed room of a mental hospital.

Lucifer wriggles down the bed, kissing down Sam’s gleaming chest as he does. That cold, bifurcated tongue finds the open slash of the incision he made only moments earlier; he pushes at the edges of the wound, swallows the blood that wells up and out with an approving rumble that comes from deep in his throat.

“Your blood still tastes so sweet, Sammy-baby. Can’t get enough.”

He doesn’t linger, though; he bestows a kiss upon the inflamed skin, continues on his way down. He leaves smears of Sam’s blood in his wake, painting his belly and hips with the red marks of long fingers and the vague shapes of a probing tongue.  
Lucifer finally comes to his groin, but he doesn’t touch it. Sam is tense against the mattress, undoubtedly pretending he’s in the Impala with Dean, laughing about something stupid. Maybe with Gabriel the Archangel. Lucifer can’t find it in him to ponder much longer; there are much more interesting things to ponder. One of these things is the way Sam’s cock is half-hard against his thigh, barely visible through the soft linen of his standard-issue, psych-ward pyjamas.

Lucifer looks up to where Sam’s face is taught, eyes still closed, chin jutting towards the ceiling as he presses down into his pillow like he’s trying to get away. He sees pain, mostly, but a hint of guilt in the way Sam’s larynx flexes with suppressed sobs.  
Lucifer bends at the waist, uncomfortable but necessary to fit on the small bed, and rests his cheek on Sam’s thigh, feigning innocence. He scratches nails through the pubic hair visible above the elasticised waistband of Sam’s pyjama bottoms, like he’s thinking some more.

Sam cracks. He can’t do it any more. He doesn’t know what to do, what he’s going to do, but he’s not going to lay here and let Lucifer toy with him like he’s some broken plaything to a sadistic child who takes pleasure in breaking what’s theirs.

He calls out for Dean, he screams, he thrashes. The bed threatens to topple onto its side with the weight of him. He prays for Cas as he sobs, arching up and away from the mattress, bucking Lucifer off with determined throws of his hips. A nurse rushes in, his nurse, with her soft skin and brown hair and strangely cold eyes.

She slots a needle into one of the veins bursting under the fragile skin of his arm, and within minutes, Sam succumbs to the darkness, whimpering like a beaten pup.

Lucifer sighs into the black, cottony fog of his mind, disgruntled, and temporarily abandoned, but far from forgotten.


End file.
